The Secret in Their Eyes
by Hawki
Summary: Oneshot: Everyone had secrets. You could even glean them in a person's eyes. But not even Matilda could know everything.


**The Secret in Their Eyes**

"Magnus Hall" sounded much better than "Crunchem Hall."

It also looked nicer, Matilda reflected, as she sat in the assembly area located between the gates and the building proper. Years ago, when her father had first taken her to the school, she'd reflected how barren it looked. Like something out of the works of Charles Dickens – dark, grim, bare, and not at all welcoming for children. Now, it looked like something out of the works of Dr. Seuss. Bright. Welcoming. A place where children could come and play without fear of being tossed over fences for wearing pigtails.

 _Or being forced to eat cake. Or being locked in a chokey. Or…_

She supressed that line of thought in the darkest recesses of her mind, and adjusted her glasses as she revised her speech. It was the end of school year, and the students in the highest grade would be moving on to high school at the end of year assembly. In a few hours' time, she, as a former Magnus (or Crunchem, technically) Hall alumni, would be delivering a speech. Matilda Honey – finest student Crunchem Hall had ever seen. University graduate at the age of twelve. Accomplished author, critic, scientist, mathematician, linguist, and, in the words of BBC, "quite possibly the finest mind Britain, if not the world, has seen in a generation." Brushing away some hair, she couldn't help but smile. There were better things to do in her life then take part in TV interviews. It was as if the world had decided that since she'd never received any thanks in the first six years of her life, they had to make up for that over the next twenty years. And yet, part of her enjoyed it. And even more parts of her liked it when she called her mother. When she could once again hear the pride in Jennifer Honey's voice. And feel loved.

 _Its, not it's._

She scribbled the correction in her written speech. Even she wasn't above the occasional grammar mistake. And she didn't care if no one else would see her notes, thank you very much. In fact…

 _Damn the notes._

She put the paper in her satchel, and reclined against the bench. Grass covered the assembly area of Magnus Hall now. And as children made their way across it, she once again reflected how different everything was. Not just the style, but the atmosphere. One that came from not just the last day of school. In the old days, she imagined that escaping Agatha Trunchbull would have been a cause for celebration, but even now, children looked forward to the holidays. She had too, even as much as she had loved learning, in the three levels of education that she had zoomed through.

"Miss Baudelaire! Miss Baudelaire!"

She smiled as she watched a pair of children run up to one of the teachers on playground duty. Smiled as they showed her a frog that they'd found – one that she hoped wasn't going to find its way into any glasses soon. She watched the teacher bend down, and ask where they'd found it. As they-

"Watch out!"

Something hit her on the side of the head. Her glasses fell off, landing near the soccer ball that had caused the impact.

"Sorry!"

She watched another student walk up to her sheepishly. Five years old, a boy, and one who looked both embarrassed and amused.

"Sorry," he repeated sheepishly.

Matilda put her foot under the ball and lobbed it upwards, using her knee to knock it back to the child who caught it. "Here," she said. "Have fun."

"Thanks Miss!"

He ran off and Matilda returned to the chair.

"Here."

And looked up at the teacher, who had her glasses in one hand. She took them.

"Thanks," she said, taking out a tissue and wiping them.

"Last day of school," the teacher said. She smiled. "I hope you don't mind."

"No, not at all. They're children. It's a time for them to have fun."

"Yes. Of course."

Matilda blinked as she put her glasses back on. The teacher's smile…Baudelaire, was it? There was something off about it. It was a sad, melancholic smile. The type of smile her mother had given when Agatha Trunchbull had loomed over the school like a gargoyle. Ready to swoop down on unsuspecting prey at a moment's notice.

"You know," Matilda began. "I didn't get your name."

"Violet," the teacher said. "Violet Baudelaire."

"Which subject?"

"Oh, design and technology, over at Magnus High," she said. "I'm filling in here actually."

The smile remained, as forced as ever. But it was her voice that gave it away. Matilda watched as Violet sat down beside her. She couldn't have been more than in her early thirties, yet there was something…off, about her. Not just her voice, or smile for that matter, but the way she held herself. Like she was…wounded, she supposed. Not all there. Like she was hanging on to life, and couldn't live it.

In a way, Matilda reflected, she reminded her of herself. Of her mother, before she became…well, her mother. She shivered, and not just because of the December weather.

"Be careful Timothy," Violet called out, as the football game continued.

Matilda kept in silence as she watched Violet take out a ribbon and do up her hair. It was bright red – like a ribbon she'd worn once, in what felt like another life. Zinnia Wormwood had given her that ribbon. It was one of the few times she'd truly felt happy in that life. And one of the even fewer times when it felt like Harry, Zinnia, and Michael Wormwood were glad to have her in their lives.

"You're Matilda Wormwood aren't you?"

Matilda Honey's heart skipped a beat.

"Miss Honey's adopted daughter?"

And the heart stopped dead. 'Adopted daughter.' A truth, and one she hated. In her mind, Jennifer Honey was her mother. Jennifer Honey had raised her, educated her, and comforted her. Loved her, even. Changing her surname had just been a formality.

"Yes," Matilda said. "But I try not to think of her as my foster mother."

"Your real mother, then?"

"Yes."

Matilda's eyes flashed, and she felt lightning in her mind. Felt energy coursing through her.

"Sorry," Violet said. "I shouldn't ask."

And felt it left her. Her powers rarely entered her grasp now. Anger was one of the things that set them off, and always, for twenty years, she'd kept them in check.

"It's just…never mind."

And someone like Violet Baudelaire didn't warrant that.

"I know it's strange," Matilda said. "I mean, parents and-"

"Keep onto the good memories," Violet said. "Someday, it's all you'll have."

"I'd like to think that day is a long way off," Matilda murmured.

"Of course." Violet smiled at her. That sad, strange smile. But it wasn't the smile that bothered Matilda this time. It was her eyes. Eyes that looked…old. Like they'd seen so much. It sounded silly, but Matilda had long learnt that everyone had secrets. And it was in a person's eyes that one could gauge the nature of a person. The way Jennifer Honey's eyes had shone every time she'd looked at her adopted daughter. The way the eyes of Harry and Zinnia Wormwood never had.

And Violet's eyes told Matilda everything – they were wounded. And only with the ribbon, as she kept her hair out of her eyes, did they show something else.

"So," Matilda said. "Design and technology."

Violet nodded. "I like inventing things."

"You're an inventor?"

She laughed bitterly. "That's one word for it. My brother's a librarian, and my sister's a chef, but…" She trailed off, and Matilda looked as she put her hands together. "But no. Inventor's too generous a word. But if I can help others…"

Matilda bit her lip. That speech was far away in her mind now. And in all that large mind of hers, she had no idea what she could, or should, say.

"Anyway," Violet said, getting up. "I should get back to supervising."

"Violet-"

"It was nice meeting you," she said. Matilda watched her undo the ribbon, as her hair covered her eyes in the winter breeze. As they covered a tear as well. "Nice to know that…some of us have happy endings."

Matilda remained in silence, and watched her walk off into the playground.

"Goal!"

"No it's not, you cheated!"

"Liar liar pants on fire!"

Watched as she broke the fight up. As the children instantly fell in line. Almost as if she was a mother figure.

Watched and sat. Thought of her speech. Of days long gone. Of what was to come.

And the mysteries she could never solve.


End file.
